Free Angel of the Knight by Diana Hall

his brush. From somewhere deep in the shadows, a mournful bird called. A wren. Falke followed the sound, mindful of the tingling at the base of his neck and the racing of his heart.

Chapter Five
    A warm breeze ruffled Falke’s hair as he paused in his search. His uncle’s woods—nay, his woods—bowed with stately greenery. With surprise, he noted the brushstrokes of turquoise and rose in the sky above. Hours had passed since he had first entered the forest and heard the wren.
    He must have been wrong. ’Twas some villein or poacher he had spotted at the forest edge, not Lady Wren.
    With the sun sinking, ’twould be best to make his way back to the castle. Looking about, he realized he had ventured far into the woods. Far enough that he was unsure of his landmarks. He headed off to the east, believing he would either run into fields or find the castle.
    Speaking out loud to the muse of nature, Falke questioned the wind. “Where is my infamous luck now? How could this sixth sense of mine lead me so far astray?”
    Luck served as his aegis, a way to hide his intelligence and prowess…and irritate his father. Bernard de Chretian hated the fact that his son accomplished military coups so easily and brushed them away as just a manifestation of good fortune. Falke always kept his planning hidden under the guise of carousing and wenching. Now, when he could really use some good fortune, not even a glimmer of hope burned.
    Ozbern was right—Falke did not want to lose this keep. Mayhap, at last, he had a home. And luck aside, he was determined to secure Mistedge as his own. Despite Laron and the dismal village, Falke knew he could build Mistedge to a prosperous keep, if given the chance.
    He let his feet pound against the leaf-littered forest floor. Down a steep vale, a jump across a narrow creek, then a scamper up the other side. He crested a ridge and scanned for some telltale mark that he was on the correct path.
    Daylight battled with the coming night, but twilight would last only so long. Already he spotted the cold face of the full moon as the sun dipped below the treetops. Disheartened, he trudged on as the darkness deepened, until he heard again the wren’s serene song, a splash, then a gasping chortle.
    He pivoted, his instincts telling him the sound was feminine in origin. Aye, he could hear it plainly now, an odd, scratchy-throated laughter, but womanly. He followed the sound as he made his way through the forest.
    Pushing aside berry brambles and wild rosebushes, he entered a clearing. A small pond nestled in a gentle groove of land. Wildflowers, their colorful heads nodding like sleepy children, sprinkled the mossy green banks. Moonlight glided across the water, the silvery beams twinkling like underwater stars.
    Kneeling on one knee, Falke cursed his foolishness. There was no woman here. Whomever he had spotted earlier must be long gone by now. In an attempt to relieve his frustration, he skipped a flat stone across the water.
    He followed its path as a shadow against the moonlight, and then stumbled to his feet and gasped. Just where his stone disappeared into the depths of the dark water, the moonlight came to life.
    Rays of silver-white light turned to strands of floating hair. From the blue-black depths, two arms surfaced. Then a chest, with full, uplifted breasts, followed by a narrow waist and slim hips.
    His own chest constricted and his heart demanded he take a breath of air, yet Falke could not. The image before him made movement a forgotten act. At the far shore, the petite figure emerged from the pond. Artemis, goddess of the moon, stood on the bank opposite him, clad only in the glorious light of her hair. She disappeared behind a clump of vines and at last Falke found his breath.
    A dream…a fit brought on by his troubled mind. Falke tried to rationalize away the mirage as he wove in and out of the shadows toward the mysterious woman. Like a thief, he stalked a hidden treasure,afraid it was all a